lightweight. You might consider a scope;
for those hawk-ish specks soaring far.
The tripod should be sturdy; it’s windy
on the ridge. Again, the shake, the blur.
And don’t let your eyes strain

to compensate for quality. Consider
the prisms, lens coatings, how much
you want to spend. Migration means
there’s so much sky to scan, so
choose a wider field of view. Tricky,

these contraptions—no matter how close
you feel, how crisp, how clear you see,
there will always be that bird you missed.
A Merlin on the wrong side of the ridge,
wings tucked into a glide, sails south and fast,

unconcerned about your careful records.
An east-strayed Swainson slips by, on long
pointed wings while, eyes turned west, you
are distracted by the glinting white head
of a Bald Eagle, perfectly framed in the glass.

***

The 6:45 Train by Dawn Leas

She drinks the bright warmth

waiting, always waiting,

for tomorrow and the late-train

whistle signaling his arrival.

(An idea catches her attention

drawing her closer to movement.)

Unknowingly, he transforms with each

passing mile while replaying their early

morning goodbye. As he steps onto the solid

wood platform, it never occurs to him

that she’s done waiting.

***

Untitled

by Carol MacAllister & Adrian Spendlow

And through the haze appears

times that have been.

They call to us,

So often unheard

in haunting whispers

transcending words,

‘i hear’, ‘i hear’

one’s inner voice reminds
lacing through from other times.

An ageless sense of self is seen,

Is living merely lucid dreams,

Remembrance echoes from before

and memories ebb

our future lore.

***

Rapunzel by Iris Johnston

They tell me you died with your hand on your heart,

and nobody found you for days.

That’s what you pay

for the privilege of life in a land

where nobody knows your English name

and yours are the only blue eyes around.

Your mother wore poppies to honor your absence.

What do you care about poppies?

Your eyes and nose are cinders in the guts of whales.

Your sister told stories of newspaper suits,

of handmade capes,

manta ray trainers in ecru and pine.

But your shoulders now wear nothing but ocean,

you need no more hobbies to soothe nervous hands,

and your millions have purchased

their last pair of shoes.

Save one.

Some Stuart Weitzman loafers

tastefully tasseled, the color of tea,

with just enough sass

that all will believe

“these are the shoes my son bought for me.”

***

SUNDAY MORNING,
FLEA MARKET, MOTHER’S DAY by Lino

Yes, I am insanely jealous
of every snaggle-toothed
lucky son of a bitch
who gets to buy some useless crap,
present it with flowers stolen
from neighbors’ gardens,
make awkward conversation
that skitters around the edges
of old disappointments,
over overcooked beef and
mashed potatoes,
making no effort to resist
the barely understood
gravitational pull of
unconditional love.

***

Prospects by Alexandria Smith

Is there a possibility

that the circles beneath your eyes

are not from lack of sleep

but from a lack of

Me, standing there

in absolute uncertainty

Uncertain Possibility

Not knowing where to go

or where you’re going

Like waking up way too late

or spilling coffee on your shirt

No, it’s not like that all

But is there a possibility

that the shake in your hand

is not from a plan that

refuses to unfurl

but from the absence of

A girl, you could say that

The first but not quite the last

but maybe the only one

with loving eyes and

tender charm

Uncertain Possibility

Like missing your flight

or forgetting your change

No, it’s not like that all

And is there a possibility

that the ache in your chest

is not from the arrival of

the rest of your book

but from a lack of

A part that you took,

the second time we met

Uncertain Possibility

Not knowing if

we’ll like it without it

Like saying too much

Or not enough

No, it’s not like that at all

***

Francis of Assisi to His Cat by Bill Harrison

“O Brother Cat, we have lived long together.

Woeful watch we kept

at the passing of our parrot brother.

Mournful vigil we observed

over the cold corpse of our canine sister.

Your icy eyes watch intently

as my frail fingers speed

over the beads

of the Sorrowful Mysteries.

When alone you continually cry.

Are you as aware of your mortality

as I am of mine?”

***

CAMERA OBSCURA by Ray Gibson

A film is a dream that you pay to have
together in the dissevering dark
before walking into the other dark:—–
shifting foregrounds of crowd on nights stars pave.

Somewhere between, immersed by silver waves,
from the other side of the screen that spark
of isolate lucidity—–so stark,
so brief—–reflected back to your eye’s grasp.

Then, you surfaced to your separate selves
to sleep and dream again, but alone now;
this lens—–like a Janus—–can backward delve,

become the auteur unseen and unfelt
in waking life, through a sight which somehow
wouldn’t be the same for anyone else.

Poet 1: Oh, how true that is
The noise can make me testy
Summertime please come

Poet 2: Dusty inferno
Heavy breath, heavier head
The outside wants in

Poet 1: The room is breathless
As are the people inside
Ancient air move out

Poet 2: Optimism reigns
When the sun is in full bloom
Spring will always come

Poet 1: Today is the day
Escape from the negative
Choose laughter instead

***

Contributors:

David J. Bauman grew up along the Susquehanna’s West Branch near Lock Haven, Pennsylvania. His poems have appeared in various student and faculty journals. His awards include the Savage Poetry Prize from Bloomsburg University and the Academy of American Poets. David’s blog, DadPoet.WordPress.com features a heavy emphasis on reading poetry out loud.

Luciana Celestine has been enchanted by the written word as far as her memories stretch. Her love of art, fashion, and a good laugh have influenced her writing. Luciana earned her B.A. in English from King’s College and her M.A. in Creative Writing from Wilkes University. She lives in Scranton with a handsome little dog named L.T.

Raymond Gibson is a graduate of the creative writing M.F.A. program at Florida Atlantic University. His verse can be found in Oak Bend Review, THIS Literary Magazine, River Poets Journal, and Pirene’s Fountain.

Rachael Goetzke is co-founder and Managing Editor ofWord Fountain. Her poetry, fiction and non-fiction have been published in The Cohort Review, Ripasso, Tiny Booklets, Word Fountain and The Writing Disorder. She earned her M.F.A. in Creative Writing from Wilkes University. Visit: http://kindalikeapoet.wordpress.com/

William Fuller Harrison is a resident of Wilkes-Barre, PA. He has studied creative writing with Charles O’Donnell of ArtSeen, and Leland Bennett of Plymouth High School, from which he graduated in 1965. His poetry and prose have been published in Veterans’ Voices magazine and Word Fountain.

Iris Johnston can’t decide if she is more satisfied by flowers and ponds, or Sephora and Thai food. She currently hopes to discover the existence of a Nail Polish Tree.

Lino lives in Wilkes-Barre, where he has recently stopped caring much about anything. He is good company for short periods of time, then things get a bit wobbly.

Edward Lupico puts pen to paper to write the occasional poem, but more frequently just ruminates upon words.

Dawn Leas‘schapbook, I Know When to Keep Quiet, was published by Finishing Line Press. She earned an M.F.A. in Creative Writing from Wilkes University. Her work has appeared in goldwakepress.org, Literary Mama, Interstice, and elsewhere. She is the associate director of the Wilkes M.A./M.F.A. Creative Writing programs.

Carol MacAllister, M.F.A., is widely published in poetry, has won several poetry awards and has served as adjudicator in poetry competitions, most recently, NFSPS. She has edited and published three books of poetry – RIPASSO, a unique
by-invitational-only collection including Robert Pinsky and other poet laureates. Available only at clmshazam@aol.com

Poet # 1 has no formal writing training other than a creative
writing class in high school and a course in college. Poet #1 owes the haiku success to Poet #2 and Poet #2’s inspiration.

Poet # 2 would like to thank Poet #1 for her contributions to the daily haiku conversations that buoyed her through the restless winter of 2012-2013 and for her enthusiastic support of her creative endeavors.

Alexandria Smith “When things happen, you write.” As I look back at the things I have written, I realize how true that is. These two pieces are the aftermath of a failed relationship, one that I savored, stayed, and suffered for. I cannot change what happened. I can only write.

Adrian Spendlow is the official Bard of York, England, and presents his work in private and public venues. He is a key presenter in the huge annual Viking Festivities, as well as a storyteller and portrayer of characters in themed events and enactments.

Stef Szymanski cares way too much about the personal lives of fruits and vegetables, which has led to her becoming the co-creator, producer, writer, artist, and voice actor of the animated project “Produce High” (www.producehigh.com). Her artistic aspirations and talents flourish in the cultural mecca known as Scranton, PA.